Tonight
by storybycorey
Summary: How will Mulder and Scully deal in the aftermath of the "intriguing" phone conversation they shared earlier today? Sequel to my fic "Today". You really should read that one first!


That churning in her belly she'd awoken with is different now. Not better, not worse. Just different.

This morning, there'd been only one thing on her mind.

Today. The day her eggs were to be fertilized. The day one precise moment in a laboratory could result in a lifetime of sticky hugs, murmured lullabies, and sleepless nights. The day that she could potentially become a mother, Mulder a father.

Isn't that enough for a day? Aren't those elements life-changing enough for a single twenty-four hours? No, of course not. Because as it always seems to happen between Mulder and herself, when it rains, it pours. And she's wading her way through a goddamn torrent right now.

Without an umbrella.

Exposed. That's the best way she can put it. She feels completely and utterly exposed. But perhaps in a bit of a good way? Maybe? Can feeling vulnerable be a good thing? She doesn't know. Emotions aren't her strong suit. Oh really, Dana? That's quite a revelation you've had there.

She's always kept herself in check, revealing only her most necessary bits and pieces to the outside world, to Mulder. What happened today, she can't even… can't even comprehend, not even in her wildest dreams, even though her dreams realistically are never very wild. Maybe that's the problem, she thinks.

Phone sex. With Mulder. Sweet baby Jesus. She feels the stain across her cheeks and the tips of her ears for not the first time today. Not the second time either. More than likely not even the third. My god, it was intense. And sexy and naughty (her blush darkens) and wholly consuming. And she can't stop thinking about it.

Nor can she stop smiling, even though each time her lips begin to curve, she surreptitiously glances around the room to make sure no one is watching. Which of course is absurd. Since she's alone in her apartment. Waiting for him.

That churning in her belly swells again. She thinks he's asked her out on a date. "Take you out to dinner" he'd said, "to celebrate us." Those words mean date. Don't they? Or does he simply want to celebrate the monumental step of the IVF treatments? Congratulations on trying to make a baby, and by the way, thanks for helping me jerk off in the bathroom with your 1-900 voice.

Someone had told her that once, that she had a voice like a phone sex operator. She hadn't been flattered at the time. Would it flatter her now, if Mulder told her the same thing? She doesn't even need to think to answer that question.

Had that really been all it was? She's embarrassed again, for allowing herself to get so carried away. But the things he'd said… he'd said those things to *her*, not just to a sexy voice. Her heartrate quickens just thinking about it. Her clit throbs at the memory of the sounds he'd made, as he came, the way he'd growled her name. God.

She realizes she's been pacing. She's surprised there're not actual treadmarks worn into the floor around the perimeter of her living room. She's like a caged animal.

It's been hours since he left the office to bring his donation to the lab. Has the procedure already taken place? While she's been trying on one outfit after another, has a miracle occurred? In her anxiety, has she missed it? THAT's what she should be focusing on. Not whether Mulder likes her best in blue or green.

But really, would he like her better in blue? Or green?

She walks back into her bedroom to look in the mirror. Again.

Nine. That's how many outfits she's tried. Each one not quite right. Too casual. Too dressy. Too sexy. Not sexy enough. It would help if she knew whether this was an actual fucking date or not.

She settles on a low-cut black sweater (she never *was* able to decide between the blue and the green) and a slim gray skirt. She's aware that she's showing an enticing amount of cleavage, and the lacy shelf bra she wears beneath enhances it even further. She's never worn this bra before, bought it on a whim one day, then stuffed it into the back of her drawer. Will he realize she's wearing it for him?

She wishes she could script her every thought across her clothing, so that it's all out in the open. Because there's no way she'll be able to say the words. Thank you for donating your sperm. I'm eternally grateful for you. Oh, and if this afternoon was for real, would you please rip off my clothes, throw me over your shoulder, and fuck me into tomorrow afternoon?

She's still debating whether he'll be able to crack her highly sophisticated clothing code, when she hears his knock at the door. In a moment of spontaneity, she kicks off her boring office pumps and quickly slips on a pair of strappy black heels. She pauses once more at the mirror, second thoughts already threatening, but another insistent knock and his keys jingling at the door prod her forward.

The door swings open the second her hand glances the knob, and she stumbles back a step before recovering. "Scully… you didn't answer your doo-," he states as apology, then pauses abruptly, looking at her while he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes sweep down her body quite languidly, much more languidly than she remembers them ever having swept before, lingering at her cleavage, then again at her legs and hastily-donned heels. She feels the flush as it creeps from her chest up to her cheeks. Feels the heat as it begins smoldering between her legs. Feels her heartrate as it quickens.

"Ummm… it's okay… I was just…," she looks down at the floor and fumbles, lightheaded and a bit off-kilter from his admiration. Can he tell that she's already wet for him? He interrupts her musings with a bouquet of flowers being thrust her way. "Flowers, Mulder! Y-you shouldn't have," she tries to hide her smile by ducking her chin, afraid to let him see her unmasked giddiness at the token.

Flowers. Date. Flowers means date, she's sure of it.

"Well, you know, ummm, just celebrating the big step we took today…," he says. Yes, big step. Gigantic step. The hottest, sexiest step she's ever taken. Oh, thank god, we're on the same page! "…with the procedure and all."

Oh. Right. The procedure.

Okay, maybe not a date. Or is it?

God, why the hell does everything have to be so confusing? Why must their every interaction be encrypted with hidden meaning? The two of them are like the earth, layer upon layer of dirt and rock and metal and deep down inside, hot molten magma, yearning to burst free. Will they ever dig far enough below their armor to actually reach it?

Today…, today they did, for a few brief awe-inspiring moments. And god, it was as hot as she's ever imagined. She still feels the residual burns across her body. She wouldn't be surprised to find blisters on her skin from the heat of his voice across that phoneline.

She realizes she's been staring at his chest (the fantasies she's had about that chest…), her lips parted and tongue running along her teeth, and she startles back to the present, shaking her head and sputtering, "Uh, yes, you're right… the procedure. Umm, so everything went fine? You were able to drop off your ummm… ahhh…. the donation?" She turns quickly toward the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers.

As she rises on tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the fridge (brilliant move, Dana, putting vases on the highest possible shelf), she senses him there immediately. Already she's trembling, before his hand even grazes her hip. It lands there, and his heat presses against her back while he reaches up and easily plucks the crystal from the shelf. He's not even on his tiptoes, she thinks, and she almost loses herself in the tall (so very tall) warm curve of his torso, almost allows herself to melt drunkenly back against him, when he murmurs, "Yes, everything went just fine." And then his hand is gone from her hip as quickly as it found itself there, and she shivers from the sudden rush of cold.

"Good," she whispers, "good."

Their eyes meet, and she swears she sees something there, something burning. The moment stretches just a bit, and she wills him to make a move, something, anything, to push them one way or the other. She doesn't know how much longer she can bear walking this straight line.

But then the contact is broken, as he looks away and gestures toward the bouquet, saying, "I'll put them in water."

She leans her pelvis against the kitchen table and brings her cool hands to press against her flushed cheeks. How is she ever going to make it through the evening? Why were things so easy when they spoke on the phone, yet so difficult face to face?

He comes behind her once again and places the vase on the table, his side brushing against her arm. He stands there for a moment and lingers. The moment expands, then contracts in upon itself. The air vibrates with a hum that makes her knees weak.

His gaze plays upon her cheek, and she can feel it as it eases its way along her neck, drips over her shoulder, then slides down into the cleavage she bared just for this very purpose. She wonders whether he notices her nipples hardening or her breath quivering. Does he know what he does to her? Does he have any idea?

He asks in a husked voice, "Ready to go?", and before she realizes what's happened, they're heading out the door, his hand at her back like a compass. He is her north, and he's never once steered her wrong.

Her breathing has yet to return to normal as they speed through town, and she's almost grateful for the console between them, defining their individual personal spaces. With Mulder, she is constantly confused. With him, she is forced to redefine her boundaries every single day. And on days like today, nights like tonight, she wants no boundaries at all; she wants to fucking erase every single one of the boundaries, to fling herself against him and be absorbed right into his person, tall and dark and all-consuming.

The console at least keeps her restrained, keeps her from embarrassing herself further than she has already done today. Her mind drifts to this afternoon, to the way she touched herself in the office, his grunts and moans whispering in her ear, driving her into such a desperate state, she lost her every inhibition. She bites her lip to keep from moaning.

The silence is becoming deafening in the confines of his small car. The throb of sex sex sex sex sex is everywhere— it's all she can hear— and the more she tries to ignore it, the louder it bellows. Why can't he say something? Doesn't he feel it? Doesn't he hear it? Isn't it threatening to completely overwhelm him as it is her?

Glancing his way, she sees his lip held tightly between gnawing teeth, the steering wheel held tightly between tensed fingers. He's nervous, too. The realization both comforts her and ignites her further. What a pair of dysfunctional messes we are.

A few moments of attempting to control her breathing, slow in, slow out, and she finally summons the courage to confront it. There's no way she can navigate the rest of the evening wading through sexual tension so thick, it's suffocating. She's got to do something before she implodes.

"Mulder, this aftern…" she murmurs, so primed and ready, she aches with it, but at the exact same second, he chooses to speak as well.

"So I hope you like Italian," he says in a loud voice that reminds her of a used car salesman. Which is an absurd thing to say anyway, since they eat Italian at least once each trip they take. Then more quietly, gently, "Umm, oh, what were you saying, Scully?"

She drops her head and smiles, looking to her lap, "Nothing. It was nothing, Mulder. Yes, I love Italian." She has to chuckle at the serendipity of their timing. Will things ever just be easy for them?

He pulls into a parking space and looks at her. "Really, Scully, it seemed like you were about to say something...," his voice is soft and tender, and he reaches his hand across the console to rest on her leg. What had she been saying about being happy the console was there to restrain them? Ummm, disregard that. Disregard that entirely. Her skin sizzles where he touches, and she suddenly can't remember needing to speak at all. She was about to say something? She doubts she could even spit out a syllable right now, much less put together a comprehensible sentence.

"Uhhh…," she manages, and then he squeezes her knee and draws his fingers unhurriedly up the length of her thigh before pulling them back into his respective area. Come back, come back, she wants to whisper.

"That's okay," he says, "You'll tell me once you're ready." He climbs out of the car and leans back down to give her a smile before shutting the door. Her breath releases in a slow, steady stream through pursed lips, and she wills her heart to crawl its way back inside her chest. Oh lord, how is she going to survive this night?

Inside, they wait as the maître d consults his seating chart. Mulder stands behind her, so closely she can feel his warmth, and she is slightly startled when his fingertips touch her shoulder, then slip beneath her hair to tickle along the skin at her nape. Her lips part in a sharp gasp, and she shivers as goosebumps prickle slowly throughout her body. Her eyes drift closed, and she's so focused on the trail he's blazing with his finger that she fails to see the maître d gesture for them to follow.

"Scully," Mulder leans down to whisper in her ear, and she snaps to attention.

"Mister Mulder? Private booth, party of two?" the Italian man says, and she licks her lips, embarrassed, as Mulder's hand sweeps down her side to rest at her hip, guiding her through the restaurant until they've reached a cozy booth, hidden in the back corner of the establishment, tucked away like a treasure box.

Lush velvet curtains drape across the small entrance, and she slides her way inside, surprised to find that it isn't a standard booth at all, but merely one bench curved against the back wall, overflowing with pillows. It is elegant and luxurious. And intimate. So very intimate, she realizes, as he nestles in beside her, so closely his knee practically presses against her own.

Yes, this is most definitely a date.

He orders them wine, and they're left alone, with a wink from the maître d and instructions to close the curtains should they require…ahem…privacy.

She doesn't know what to do. Where to look, what to say, what to do with her goddamned fidgety fingers. Are they going to finally actually discuss this? "This… this is beautiful, Mulder," she addresses her lap. He's so close, she's afraid to look at him just yet.

He nudges her shoulder with his own, once, then again, until she finally relents and meets his eyes. "We deserve it, Scully," he says quietly, smiling, "We've taken a gigantic leap forward today."

She ducks her chin and huffs a quick breath before answering, "Ha, ummm… yeah, yeah we have." Yes, it appears they are going to discuss it. She's both relieved and nervous as hell.

"No, I didn't mean …with the phone…" he chuckles and looks away in recognition, "Ummm, I meant the IVF, the… the beginning of it all. Ummm, a-among other things, I suppose…"

But before she can respond, a waiter appears, peeking into their secluded little cove and bringing their wine. She's momentarily grateful for the interruption. Especially if it involves alcohol. She has a feeling she's going to require a lot of liquid courage tonight.

While she mentally gathers herself together, he takes the liberty of ordering their dinners. She smiles to herself when she hears him ask for her salad dressing on the side. He often knows her better than she knows herself. Sometimes that scares her. And other times, like tonight for instance, other times, she wants to take that familiarity and bask in it.

Once again alone, he lifts his glass and says quietly, "I'd like to propose a toast."

"To what, Mulder?" she murmurs, suddenly feeling bold. "To getting extra-creative with our government issued cell phones?"

"Why, Agent Scully! You shock me!" he slaps his hand to his chest Southern-belle-style, in mock astonishment, then grins at her appreciatively. "Although, I have to say, you and that voice of yours have some skills I wouldn't mind further investigating..."

He winks at her, and she blushes in response, turning her face away to hide her embarrassed smile. Why, Agent Scully, indeed!

"No, Scully, as much as our telephone behavior really does probably deserve its own special toast, I really just wanted to celebrate us, YOU, being one step closer to fulfilling a dream."

He's so sweet sometimes, it's easy to forget the times she wants to clobber him. This is one of those times. His crooked little smile and his green, green eyes don't hurt his cause much either.

"That's sweet, Mulder," she ducks her head to keep herself from leaning forward and kissing him. She's tempted. So very tempted.

"Ummm, I know we haven't really discussed it much, but I've thought about it…," he continues.

"What? What have you thought about?" she asks. She's thought about it, too, she's sure of it. Anything he can say, she's thought about. She's imagined him as part of her life in every possible capacity, from distant acquaintance to absolute soulmate. But she realizes she really has no idea where he sees himself.

"About being… being a father, having a family," he looks down into the burgundy swirl of his wine while he tilts the glass, back and forth, back and forth. "About taking my… my son to Little League games…, or pushing him on the swings, teaching him to ride a bike…. Or about holding a baby girl—my…my daughter—looking into her little blue eyes, thinking how much she looks just like y...," he stops, glancing quickly at her eyes, wondering whether she's caught his slip. She has, but she doesn't let him know, preferring to take that knowledge and tuck it inside her chest beside her rapidly swelling heart. "I just… I didn't have the greatest childhood, Scully. You know that. And I… I think I could do so much better than my parents did. I think I could be a good dad, Scully…"

"You'd be the best dad, Mulder," she whispers, "you'd be wonderful with our… with kids…" Transversely, he shows no sign of catching her own slip, other than the quick upward twitch of the corner of his lip, and she chooses to attribute that to…well, anything other than the possibility they may actually be laying their cards out on the table. She thinks about the daydream she had earlier today, of him placing their baby in the crib, then turning to her and taking her in his arms…. God, she wants that so much, she aches with it. "What else? What else have you thought about?"

"I just… I miss it, don't you?" his brow is furrowed, and she wants so desperately to reach out and smooth the crease with her thumb.

"Miss what?" she murmurs. There are so many things she herself misses, so many things.

"I miss having someone… a significant other, a… a woman." He glances at her, and she wants to whisper, I'm a woman, Mulder. She takes a gulp of wine instead. Have they ever come this close? Have they ever looked over the edge of the cliff so boldly? "Someone who understands me, who puts up with my… ummm, delightfully charming eccentricities…," he grins, but then grows serious, "…and yet loves me for who I am."

"You…you've never mentioned it before. I guess I never knew you thought of those things…" She realizes that somehow they've shifted closer together. Where their knees were once touching, now their whole thighs press together. He's warm, so warm against her body.

"There are lots of things you don't know about me, Scully. Lots of things…."

I want to know those things, Mulder, she thinks. I want to know everything. "I want to know… Tell me…," she says quietly.

"I guess…," he searches the ceiling of their private hideaway, "I guess it's the little things I miss, you know? Brushing teeth together, cuddling on the couch, lazy weekend mornings…" She can't count the number of fantasies she's had about cuddling with him on his black leather couch.

"Lazy weekend mornings, Mulder? You?" she teases him to try and hide the thumping of her heart. Those things are the very things she yearns for as well.

Of course they are. She should have known.

"I'm not all work, you know. Sometimes I'd enjoy taking a weekend off. Especially if I had someone to share it with. Someone besides the three stooges, at least," he grins and nudges her with his shoulder, making sure she got the joke. Oh, she got the joke. But apparently he's still uncertain, because he chuckles again and lightly slaps her thigh for added emphasis.

And then leaves his hand there. On her thigh.

She silently sucks in a breath and presses her lips tightly between her teeth. She tries not to shudder at the electricity that's suddenly easing its way through her body, all originating from that one warm spot, half on her rayon skirt, half on her silk-stockinged knee.

"Wha… what would you do on those lazy weekends?" she's proud that her voice doesn't waiver when she speaks. At least not very much.

"Just… I don't know… just be together, you know? Lie in bed all day if we want—cuddling, talking…, laughing,…, her warm, sweet head on my chest… , our legs tangled…, stroking my fingers through her… through her hair…." He pauses for a moment, licking his lips, then slowly reaches his arm out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He continues quietly, almost wistfully, "I miss being able to touch someone. Just because I want to. Just to make her feel good… knowing she enjoys it…" He lingers there briefly, then slides his finger down into the curve of her neck. Her breath quickens.

"She does… she does enjoy it…," she breathes. Her head tilts to follow him, and she looks into his eyes. They are dark and deep and she's never wanted to live inside another person so desperately.

Closer, his face looms ever-so-slightly closer, and she thinks, he is my world, he's been my whole world for so very long. Why haven't I realized that until now?

But suddenly her world is gone, and the waiter is announcing, "Dinner is served!" while Mulder pulls himself quickly away. She melts back into the cushions, convinced that the universe is part of some elaborate plan constructed by the Consortium to never, never allow them anything good. Much less anything extraordinary.

And she knows they could be extraordinary. If they could just get there.

She fidgets with the tassel of one of the decorative pillows while their food is laid before them, feeling somewhat like Jeannie in her bottle, drowning in a sea of velvet and satin and fringe. If only a twitch of her nose and a sharp blink of her eyes could make all her dreams come true.

After checking one last time that everything is to their liking, the waiter draws closed the curtains with a flourish and leaves them to their meal. Alone. She doesn't know whether Mulder requested the privacy or whether it's standard practice; all she know is that there's nothing stopping them now. Well, nothing stopping them except what's stopped them for the last seven fucking years.

They look at each other, and he chuckles. "Well, shall we?" he asks. She nods. What's a few more minutes tacked onto so many years?

She takes a bite of her salad. With the dressing on the side. He takes a bite of his as well.

His knee is still resting against hers, and she revels in how nice it feels. Just being with him feels nice.

A few years ago, she would have said she'd never want to spend the rest of her life with a man. Fiercely independent, she had too many things to accomplish; she was too set in her ways. Now… she can't even imagine a life without him.

Regardless of what happens with the IVF, she sees them inextricably linked. Always.

"I miss it, too," she says quietly, their elbows brushing as they eat.

"Hmmm?" his mouth is full of pasta, and she knows for certain she is in love with him.

"Having someone—a significant other," she says. She can't believe they haven't had this discussion before tonight. But then again, maybe she can. As much as both of them claim to be searching for the truth, they've done a brilliant job avoiding it.

"What do you miss, Scully?" he asks after sipping a mouthful of wine.

It feels strange to put this sort of thing into words, to sum up the entirety of an emotion with just a few minor examples. "Of course, a lot of the things you already mentioned—lounging in bed together, the…the physical closeness, the intimacy…," she glances at him. She's surprised how vulnerable she feels, revealing this side of herself to him.

"What else?" He's stopped eating, and is watching her intently now. It always thrills her when he focuses his attention solely on her. He's unlike any other man from her past. He's unlike any man from her future, as well. She doesn't need a crystal ball to know that.

"I don't know… strolls through the park holding hands…, taking an afternoon off work to go to an art museum, sneaking a kiss behind the sculpture exhibit…." She's wistful, not necessarily because she still wants these specific things, but because she misses the innocence, the idealism she once had.

She takes a sip of wine before continuing. "Watching romantic movies in bed before… ummm… well…. And…and I miss… this is a little stupid…," she drops her head to hide her embarrassment, "but I miss slipping on a man's shirt in the morning, when I first get out of bed…, the way it still smells like him…."

His eyes close, and he bites his lip before answering in a strained voice, "Yeah, I can imagine, Scully… I can imagine the man who owned the shirt misses that, too." She thinks about his crisp white dress shirts, how they'd feel against her skin, and her heart does a slight flip-flip inside her chest.

"It's been so long, Mulder. I've… I've almost forgotten what it's like." She doesn't like the forlorn tone of her voice. Yes, she misses these things, but look what she's gained instead.

He swipes his hands down his face. "But… but you could have…. Any man would be lucky to have you, Scully…." There's pain in his eyes, a beseeching quality that breaks her heart just slightly. "Don't you ever wish you had just found a guy years ago, that you'd never gotten involved with the X-Files, with me? You could have had a happy life, gone on museum dates, spent your weekends together… You could have had babies, Scully… Instead of… instead of needing to turn to your crackpot partner to ask him to donate his sperm, because that's… because it's the only thing he can fucking do for you at this point!" She hates herself for making him think this, for making him feel like she'd rather be anyplace but right here. With him.

"No, Mulder, I don't wish that! Because I don't WANT some other guy. I don't want museum dates and walks in the park with just any guy." She reaches for his hands and enfolds them in her own on the table. "I kind of like my crackpot partner. I think he's sort of cute. And my dreams now include him as part of my future." She tilts her head until he meets her eyes. "And when he donated that sperm, it was the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me."

He shakes his head, still unable to accept what she's trying to say. "I just hate to think that I've taken those things away from you. That I've kept you from the life you wanted."

His hands are warm as she squeezes them, hoping to further emphasize her point. "THIS is the life I want now. Yes, there may be some things I would change, but I'm here because I want to be here. With you. At a cheesy Italian restaurant, celebrating the possibility of the IVF working, of maybe… maybe my becoming pregnant. And I wouldn't want it any other way."

His shy grin is worth everything to her. She needs him to realize that she WANTS to be here with him.

But she wants even more than that. Just being here with him at this stage of her life is no longer enough. She wants to be here WITH him. In every sense of the word. Their encounter this afternoon nudged open doors that have been shut and locked so tightly, for so long, she had become convinced they were impassable.

But now, in her hand, she holds a key.

She wants them to pass through those doors. She wants them to burst through those doors with a vengeance. She wants it desperately.

"Mulder?" she asks, in a low, sultry voice. She hardly recognizes herself, and she likes it.

"Yeah?" he asks, fiddling with his fork, glancing sideways to catch her eye.

"If I'm not mistaken, I believe we have some unfinished business left to attend to." She coyly raises her eyebrow.

"We do?"

"Yeah. We do. I told you a story this afternoon…," she says coquettishly, grasping his hand and pulling it back to that magical place where their legs meet, laying it back across her thigh, where it had been dallying until their dinner arrived. Then she licks her lips and looks him in the eye. "…and I was thinking… that maybe it's *your* turn to tell *me* a story…"

He holds her gaze for a heartbeat, then two, then three. She wonders whether, despite the direction the evening's been heading, whether she's somehow misread things. But then, in a voice that leaves nothing up for misinterpretation, he says, "You think so, huh? Do you think you could handle it, Agent Scully?" God, her heart is already racing.

"Yeah," she whispers, "Yeah, I can handle it." She may have been the one who initiated this game, but he clearly is going to be the one with the upper hand. She doesn't mind.

"Hmmm…, a story…," he says, pouring himself another glass of wine. With barely trembling fingers, she holds her glass out for a refill as well. She has a feeling she's going to need it. "About a man and a…," he drawls, pausing, then pulls his head back and looks her up and down appreciatively, "…and a beautiful woman."

She's seen his eyes on her in the past, has recognized his admiration in a vague sort of sense, but tonight… This is the second time he's done it tonight, and there's nothing vague about it. The feeling of his eyes upon her body makes her want to slide right into his lap. Sometimes she wishes she were the sort to do things like that.

"So, Scully, before we begin, any thematic requests?" He waggles his eyebrows, and she smiles in spite of herself.

But then she grows serious and says, "Tell me about… tell me about their first date…"

She can tell she's surprised him—she's not sure what he expected her to say; in fact, she doesn't even want to venture to guess—but she's pleased to see the request is not beyond his story-telling vernacular, because after a moment, he begins.

"Alright, their first date. Your wish is my command, little girl. Okay, are you listening?"

She nods.

"Soooo, once upon a time, there was a man. And a woman—a stunningly beautiful woman, as I've already mentioned…" He takes his role seriously, his voice at once soothing and inviting.

"I don't believe you specified 'stunningly' before…," she interjects with a teasing grin.

He looks her directly in the eye when he answers her, "Well, I should have, Scully. Because she *was* stunning. Absolutely stunning." How does he do that? How does he know how to tunnel his way right through to her heart so quickly? "So this man and this woman, they went out on a date— their first real date. You see, even though they'd known each other for years and years and years, they'd never gone on a real date before. But that doesn't mean they didn't want each other, yearn for each other even. They wanted each other something fierce. Which was why, when they'd finally decided to go on a date, the man was dreadfully nervous about it…"

"He was?" she interrupts.

"Yeah, yeah he was. Because he really wanted to impress her. Her opinion means the world to him, you see. So he wore the clothes he thought made him most attractive, even though he has absolutely no idea about that sort of thing. And he hoped that she liked what he chose…"

She reaches a hand out to touch his arm. She slides her hand from his shoulder down to his wrist, admiring his soft sweater, how it displays the sharp angles of his chest and hugs the soft curves of his shoulders. "I'm sure she liked it, Mulder. In fact, I'm sure she found him to be devastatingly handsome…," she murmurs. His hand squeezes her thigh, and she shudders.

"And he wondered… he wondered whether she was nervous, like he was. Nervous and a little scared, but also so excited and so ready, because maybe this would be the night that actually changed their relationship…. And he wondered… how she would look, when he walked through her door…."

Her eyes follow the curved hook of his jaw. He didn't shave tonight. She likes it when he doesn't shave, and his rugged, shadowed skin begs for her touch. "How did she look?" she breathes.

"God, Scully…," he exhales, "She was breathtaking. His heart stopped when he saw her. She's so beautiful anyway—stunning, as I mentioned, absolutely gorgeous—but he was blown away by her. He was in awe that a woman like her would even consider being with a man like him… And you know what else?" he asks gruffly.

"What?" Her heartrate quickens.

"She was so… ugh… she was so goddamn sexy, Scully." She feels a flush blossom across her chest, spread throughout her body. God, his voice. She has never heard his voice like this, rough and husked and burrowing right beneath her skin.

"She was?" Her lips part, and she runs her tongue along the swollen flesh.

"Yeah, she was," he breathes, "She was wearing a skirt that ended right above the knee— she doesn't know it, but he adores her knees. He finds them incredibly erotic…" At this, he slides his finger down to her knee and swirls it around. Around, around, around. She gasps as she watches. It reminds her of a carnival game, watching the penny circle a funnel until it spins down the hole. She wonders what kind of prize she'll get for playing. She wonders what kind of prize she'll allow *him* if he wins.

"He has a thing for her legs in general, if I'm being honest… She's got some sexy little ankles when she wears those high heels she likes. But he's usually not lucky enough to see them— she wears pants wayyy too frequently."

She can't help but rub her calves together, the silk of her stockings sensuous against her skin, and his hand slides even lower, slipping down her inner thigh to find that sweet spot behind her knee, then kneading the soft flesh before pulling his fingers back around. Her eyes slip closed, and she bites her lip. Hard. "Mmmaybe he should tell her that sometime," she whispers.

"Yeah? I think he's probably worried. Worried he might be crossing a line he shouldn't. Worried she may take it the wrong way." His tongue plays at the corner of his mouth, and she thinks she may burn every pair of pants she owns if he asks her nicely enough.

"Hmmm, I think he should try her. Maybe she'd surprise him. Maybe she'd wear even shorter skirts, just for himmm," her words dissolve into a restrained moan as his fingers begin teasing, edging their way beneath the hem of her skirt with every swipe up her leg. A little higher and he's going to reach the skin above her stockings. A little higher still and he may just find an entirely new truth. Jesus, she's already so wet for him.

"Mmmm, oh, he'd like that, Scully. He'd like that a lot." His hand is so big, so warm, caressing her leg. She imagines it on other parts of her body as well, how it would feel curled behind her neck, skating up her ribs, cupping her breast. Pressing into her... God. She thinks she hears a small squeak escape her throat, but she doesn't quite care at this point. Just keep going, keep going.

"You know what else he'd like?" he asks, breath hot and steamy against her ear.

She instinctively turns her cheek toward him; she's drawn to his warmth like a moth to a flame. "No, what?" she sighs. Is that really her voice? She sounds wanton, desperate. And oh god, she is. Both of those things.

"He'd like it if they were tight skirts, like this one…." The entire length of his fingers glides beneath her hem, and he grips it, tugging. She can't help the way her pelvis tilts slightly toward his hand, yearning to claim those long fingers for its own. "You wanna know why?"

"Tell me…," she whispers. He's intoxicating her with his tale.

"Because they show off her ass so nicely. She's got a great ass, Scully." Holy shit. She sucks her lip between her teeth, then releases it with a careful breath. She squeezes her thighs together.

He's so close—when did he get so close? He's right on top of her, shoulder against her own, mouth up next to her ear, and Jesus, she can smell him. He smells so damn good, like first-date flowers and clandestine calls from a basement lavatory.

"Yeah?" she murmurs. "He…he likes her ass?"

"Fuck yeah, he does..." She can't help the hum that catches in the back of her throat. "…And every time he walks behind her, and puts his hand at her waist…" He languidly slides his hand across her back to land at her hip, in the exact and precise spot she's come to think of as his own. She holds her breath.

"…All he can think is… It… it takes all his strength not to slide even lower, to see if that ass feels as amazing as it looks." He dips his fingers to tickle lightly across the swell of her rear, and she shudders, arching her back to press herself more fully into his hand.

"Jesus, Mulder," she breathes. How many times through the years has she ached for his fingers right there, gripping her flesh while she undulates above him?

But then they're trailing, trailing again, back up to her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her sweater to meet with the skin of her spine. She gasps at the unexpected thrill of it. She tries to remember whether he's ever touched her there before, whether the sensitive skin of her back has ever met the exquisite warmth of his fingertips, and then it comes back to her.

Of course. They've been fated to find their way back here since that very first night.

Her breath is shallow as his fingers play against her flesh. "He thinks about this, too, Scully…," her hair catches in his wet lips as he speaks, low beside her ear, "…touching the soft skin beneath the straight-laced blouses she wears. He's always wondered whether her skin would burn that first time."

"Does it?" she whispers, "Does it burn?" She feels him on the spot where her skin is red with ink. She wonders whether if feels different there, whether it's even hotter than the rest. Whether if feels like betrayal.

"It doesn't burn, Scully… She feels like raw, smooth silk. She feels as decadent as the expensive blouses she wears to work sometimes… so soft…." He touches her like she's seen him touch evidence, delicately, precisely, and with a reverence that renders her speechless. Her eyes close as she tries to read the messages she hopes he's scripting into her skin.

"But she wasn't wearing a work blouse that night. Because they were on a date, remember?"

She licks her lips. They feel tender, swollen, tingly. "I remember. Their f-first date," her voice trembles as he skips across a particularly sensitive spot on the curve of her hip.

"Do you want to know what she was wearing instead?" His voice is hoarse, and each syllable slides down her throat to settle at her core, until she is pulsing, aching there.

"Ungh, o- okay." She can hardly concentrate while his hand is there, while his humid breaths huff against her neck, while he invades her space like an overbearing perfume.

"She was wearing a black sweater. Sort of… sort of like this one…" Suddenly his touch is gone from her back, and she wants to sob at the cold chill left in its absence. But then he is there, his fingers playing along her clavicle. "And the contrast against her skin was exquisite…." His index finger defines a line between the darkened cashmere and the pale porcelain of her skin. She sucks in a breath. "She has beautiful pale skin, Scully. With freckles that she tries to hide..."

"Mulder…," she murmurs, his name sweet and sticky in her mouth, sliding out like syrup.

"The sweater…," he breathes, "…it had a low neckline, and Christ, it was so damn sexy." The tip of his finger is electric as it tickles along her skin. Can he see her heart pounding against her breast? Her clit throbs to every beat, wanting him. "Because her… her cleavage was showing… and she has the most gorgeous…"

Her breaths have become ragged at this point. He's so close, so large beside her. When did he grow so tall? When did she start needing him like air? She wants to breathe him in, she wants to take him inside her body and consume him. She has never been this turned on in her life. Even this afternoon, with his voice over the phone, was nothing compared to him HERE, beside her, tender and loving and hot as hell.

"He could see the swells at the tops of her breasts…like…like this…" His voice trembles slightly as his finger alights across her skin, then gently, so gently, traces the curves at the tops of her breasts. Her nipples harden instantly, and she feels her breasts swell against his touch. It takes everything within her not to grab his hand and slide it right down inside her sweater, to press his fingers against her skin in order to ease some of the devastating ache.

She can't bear it, can't bear this agonizing state of almost-there. She turns toward him and whimpers, pressing her forehead into his strong shoulder. With his lips against her temple, he murmurs, "He wonders whether she did it on purpose… for him…"

"She did, Mulder...," she groans softly, "She hoped he'd like it, that he'd find it a-appealing…" Her nose finds the heated skin of his neck, and she nuzzles against him.

"Fuck, Scully," he whispers, "And what about the rest?" He runs his hand along her arm, the air around them thick and heavy and full with possibility. If something doesn't happen soon, she's going to die.

"It was all for him," her voice is shameless and sultry, and she doesn't care anymore. It's time to finally stop caring. "It's always for him. Always." She speaks with her lips playing along his collar, with her tongue peeking out to steal a taste. "She… she wants this first date to be a beginning. She doesn't want it to end with dinner. She wants more…"

She pulls away to look at him, lips parted, wet, swollen. She has never wanted a man as desperately as she wants him right now. She is starving for him, ravenous. In his eyes, she sees the very same hunger. Feed me, she wants to say. Feed me, and then devour me whole.

She remembers wishing she were the sort to slide right into a man's lap. Right into HIS lap. His pink tongue dances in the shadow behind his teeth, and she makes a decision. Extricating herself from her nest of decorative pillows, she shifts her bottom into his lap and links her arms around his neck. She fits there like a puzzle piece that's been lost for seven years.

Resting her forehead against his own (it's always been her most favorite place), she reaches down to fiddle with his tie. And then she murmurs, "I know I requested a story, Mulder, but can the story be over now?"

One arm encircles her waist, and the other comes up to cradle her jaw. His thumb slips up to meet her parted lips, dragging gently from top to bottom, tugging until he meets the wetness within. She's having trouble breathing. Oh dear lord in heaven, kiss me please.

"This…," he mutters softly, "…this is what he wanted the very most. What *I* want the very most…"

"God, Mulder," she whimpers, "Just kiss me."

And he does. He kisses her seven year's worth, an abduction's worth, a tumor's worth, a possible pregnancy's worth. He kisses her so deeply, she doesn't know that she'll ever, ever climb her way out. And it's extraordinary.

It's extraordinary how much more solid tongues and lips are, sliding across her face, than they were imagined across a phoneline. It's extraordinary how much harder his chest is, pressed against her own, than it has always seemed in her fantasies. Words and voices and stories have nothing on the realness of what's happening between them right now. They've dug their way through the earthen layers, and the magma is bursting free. It's fiery and it's scorching, and it's finally, finally theirs.

She groans into his mouth as her fingers twist through his hair, as her teeth take his bottom lip captive, and she sucks, sucks, sucks. She's coveted that lip since the very first day. His fingers finally find her ass, just the way he (and she) imagined, and he squeezes it until she gasps. She can feel him hard and ready against her hip, and she likes it.

He tastes like wine and tomato sauce and secret hideaways, tucked away. She wants to drink him in slowly and savor him. Their kisses are slow, deep, and so, so sweet, full of tongue and just the right amount of teeth. Does he know how wet it makes her when he traces the tip along her gumline? He must, because he keeps doing it, and doing it…. And oh god, she thinks she could pass out from the pleasure.

His hands, they're just as precise, mapping out her spine, her shoulders, the backs of her silk-covered thighs. Then her hips, her waist, her ribs. And while she tears herself from his lips to explore the sandpaper of his jaw, they find her breasts. At long last. She stills, her lips parted, breath moist against his stubble, and waits.

He lifts them gently, cradling their weight the way she imagined him cradling their potential child, then sweeps his thumbs across their fullness. Her nipples are hard, already aching desperately for him, awaiting his touch. And even through her sweater, that first swipe is like an explosion. She arches herself further into his hands and moans against his cheek. His answering moan is an echo.

"Jesus… Mulder…," she whimpers. He is massaging them in earnest now, his lips tracing a slow path from her chin down into the shadow that lies between. She's not going to make it. He's slowly driving her mad.

But god, they can't do this here. They can't cross this line in a private booth that's been decorated like a genie's bottle from a 1960's sitcom.

As difficult as it is, she pulls herself away. She cups his jaw and whispers against his lips, "We…we need to go…can't do this here…." She slides herself from his lap, and he chases after, lips still pursed to engulf her. They look at each other, eyes glassy, chests heaving, worlds about to be upended.

Never breaking eye contact, he throws some bills on the table and grabs her hand, yanking them both through the velvet curtains and out of the bottle.

As he drags her out to the car, she thinks about where the day has taken them. From fertility clinics to phone calls to first dates to…

She twitches her nose and quickly blinks her eyes.

It certainly can't hurt.

Perhaps all her dreams WILL come true. Tonight.


End file.
